


Turn around and smell what you don’t see

by andrea_deer



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: D/s, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-28
Updated: 2011-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-16 00:23:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrea_deer/pseuds/andrea_deer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“But it did break-up your marriage. Well, that, your affairs, dissatisfaction and rather obvious attraction to me.”</i> Sherlock deduces Anderson and is quite surprised at his findings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn around and smell what you don’t see

**Author's Note:**

> I’d like to say it was written for a prompt, but I have no excuses, I just love Anderson too much. Enormous thanks go to my beta frayer, who really helped this fic shine, and to all my friends who heard about this fic and claimed I’m insane.

They'd been trapped for hours and there was _no data_ ; it was driving Sherlock up the wall. One moment they'd been in the car, Anderson driving- a not so subtle punishment from Lestrade for both of them, the next their car had been hit and they'd woken up tied back to back and there was _no new data coming_. No sounds, no smells- nothing but the thick darkness. It was hell.

It had been a planned attack, that much was obvious, done by professionals. It certainly wasn’t the first time they’d done something like that- too efficient. A group of men; working smoothly together; well trained. Perhaps ex-soldiers judging by discipline and deftness they’d demonstrated. Considering the amount of information they would need to kidnap them so easily, they were either highly powerful or had help from dear Jim Moriarty. Considering the kind of imprisonment, the latter. It was, after all, a place designed to drive Sherlock insane.

“Have you deduced how to get us out of here, yet?” came Anderson's insulting drawl. Sherlock flexed his arms against the ropes.

“Shut up,” he hissed, the burn on his wrists intensifying.

“You know what, arsehole, talking might actually help you. You could, you know, judge the size of the room? Things like that. There’s no need to sit here like a sulking prince for _hours_.”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up! You bloody idiot, can’t you hear?”

“Hear what?” Anderson shot back.

“The acoustics! The room is soundproofed. It makes it impossible to deduce _anything_ about this room or the world behind it. There are no clues! _None!_ They’re trying to drive me mad!”

There was a dark silence again. For a few moments, Sherlock didn’t want either of them to talk, scared he would be faced with yet another way they had shut his abilities down. Now the silence was pressing against his skull, making him want to think. But there was still no new data and his mind reviewed again all the known facts, trying to avoid concentrating on sensory deprivation that was forced on them. Used to constantly analyzing the smallest details and gleaning information from the most obscure sources: being cut off them all was terrifying. Left alone in a world he could not process properly, Sherlock could only recycle though his mind the things he had already managed to learn about their captors, frustrated beyond compare and yet unable to stop. His thoughts trying over and over again to reach further conclusions from this insufficient data and still unable to do so.

 

Mad. Mad. Mad.

He was going mad!

Well trained men, his mind started again and Sherlock groaned in pain. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

“What’s wrong with you?” inquired Anderson. Sherlock felt Anderson's head moving in what was no doubt a futile attempt to look at him.

He smelled of a rather well chosen after-shave. Different. Something had changed. Faint smell of common shampoo (the smell weakened after at least two days from washing, but generic supermarket anti-dandruff, still obvious), same deodorant as always (faint smell, overpowered by a sweating body confined in layers of clothing on a rather warm day) and a smell of the new after-shave. It had not waned much during the day - was definitely something more expensive than Anderson’s usual cosmetics.

“Your divorce was finalised,” concluded Sherlock with slow, relieved breath. This was good; this was data – his brain had something to work with. This could keep him sane for a little while longer.

“What?!” exclaimed Anderson, outraged. “You’ve got that from me asking if you’re not freaking out?”

“You’re wearing a new cologne; it suits you for a change. You don’t really wear cologne unless it’s after your birthday or Christmas and it’s usually the same hideous brand, which doesn’t smell all that bad in the shop, but just never works for you. It happens; perfumes tend to change slightly in the way they smell in contact with human skin. It probably helped that your ex-wife doesn’t have a well-tuned sense of smell. You always stopped using it a few days after it was given to you, obviously trying not to hurt the feelings of the person who gave it to you. Someone you see on daily basis, no children, so it’s your wife. Your birthday isn't for another three months. You bought cologne yourself. Obviously your wife is gone and you’re trying to deal with the separation -rebrand yourself. Conclusion: your divorce has just been finalised.”

Sherlock’s thoughts calmed into clearer order and his eyelids dropped in relief. He could deduce; his mind was not running around in circles anymore. It was good. He did get it right, it was obvious.

“What is it with you and sniffing people?”

A rather weak come-back, and, with the addition of Anderson's harsh breathing, it was clear that Sherlock had, once again, managed to uncover the details of Anderson's love life. The angry breaths sounded loud in the silent room; and Sherlock licked his lips considering.

“You’re angry.”

“Oh, really? You bloody prick. You drag out my personal life, deducing my problems from my bloody after-shave, and you’re surprised I’m angry?”

“No, not surprised,” corrected Sherlock, trying to keep his voice low and subdued. He needed Anderson, he needed to think! And as tragic as it was, currently Anderson seemed to be the only thing Sherlock could safely think about. “People usually are. But I need… I need to concentrate on something. This room… There’s nothing here, no data, I can’t… I hate... It frightens... It uses my most basic fears and weaknesses against me. Somebody designed it to drive me insane. And it’s working.”

They grew quiet in the darkness again, the thoughts in the back of Sherlock’s mind raising again to the surface once more. 'Well trained men; Planned action; Dark place,' began to cycle and he growled quietly in despair.

“Fine,” drawled Anderson, resignedly. “Ask me then.”

“I don’t want to ask you!” snapped Sherlock in frustration, giving up at playing nice. “I don’t care about your boring life, if I did, I’d ask! I just need to…”

“Deduce, I know!” snapped Anderson, interrupting. “And you can deduce people’s life stories from answers to the simplest questions. I saw you do it; so, ask me. And deduce.”

“Oh,” breathed Sherlock in awe. “Oh! This… This is good, this is brilliant!”

“And here my offer went to waste,” murmured Anderson. “You’ve clearly had already lost it.”

Sherlock answered in a low chuckle, more in delight at the idea than as a reaction to the joke. He thought for a minute, humming quietly, enjoying the reignited concentration.

“Who left whom?” he started carefully.

Anderson let out a weary sigh, but dutifully replied after a moment, his voice calmer and more emotionless than Sherlock had ever been able to hear it. Protective mask full in place then. The detective smirked in dark delight.

“We both saw it coming, and we're both listed as responsible on the paperwork. She’s the one who moved out though. She got more money and the car, and I got the flat. It was mine before we got married and she never cared for it anyway.”

“Wrong.”

“What?”

“No woman would manage to live in a place she didn’t like, when she was the one spending more time in it. Not when there was a chance of finding something different, of course. You work with the Yard, she worked from home, she spent much more time in the house than you. She had to like it.”

“Well, I wouldn't say she hated it!” replied Anderson, emotions already creeping back into his speech. He never had mastered a calm, reasoned tone. Usually it made him simply annoying, but on rare occasions, refreshingly honest. “But she always thought of it as temporary, I guess. She always assumed we will move into some larger place in the suburbs…”

Anderson’s shrug jolted Sherlock’s arms as well, but he ignored it.

“You talked about it… And yet you never moved. Why?”

“Well, this one was perfectly fine and functional, and I'd finally finished paying off the mortgage I'd had since before I'd met Dana and it was…”

“And you liked it.”

“…Fine. I liked it. Since when it’s a crime?”

“It’s not,” assured Sherlock quickly. “But it did break-up your marriage. Well, that, your affairs, dissatisfaction and rather obvious attraction to me.”

The stunned silence lasted almost exactly one second.

“You are barking mad, Holmes! I was never, ever…”

“Yes, you were; you still are. It’s obvious and beside the point. Tell me, is it men in general, or just me?”

“Neither,” spat Anderson sounding rather petulant, “Piss off.”

“You said I could…”

“And now I'm saying you can change the subject.”

Sherlock sighed in annoyance. This was the problem with deducing from people’s statements, they always shied away from most interesting answers.

“But your attraction…”

“Change. The. Subject. Now!” ordered Anderson, his voice strong and perfectly steady.

His jaws clenching, Sherlock swallowed his angry reply, but obediently stayed silent, desperate to not infuriate his only distraction.

“Did your wife learned about your affair with Donovan… No, wait, it wasn’t an affair. One night stand only. It didn’t work. She’s attractive, and, for some reason, completely taken with you, and yet it didn’t work. Must’ve been something on your side again, something you need in a partner, but didn’t get with either of them… And yet saw it in me.”

Anderson sighed in annoyance, but Sherlock's mind had picked up a scent and couldn't drop the subject.

“I’m a man, but obviously it’s not that- you’d react differently to other men after that realisation. No, you’ve slept with men in the past, not as many as women, but some. So it’s something about me specifically. Do you like being talked down? Being humiliated and insulted, is that it?” said Sherlock as an only half serious shot in the dark.

Anderson’s hands, tied right next to Sherlock’s, twitched. The detective let out a slow, delighted chuckle.

“Not really, no,” he protested.

“Yes, you do. You’re a sub.”

His hands twitched again at the term and Anderson shifted in his chair, possibly uncomfortable with Sherlock's conclusion. Close to the mark, then.

“Your wife never tried to dominate you- you kept hoping, but she failed you. Just like Donovan, falling to her knees at the merest suggestion. Oh, how disappointed you must have been!”

Anderson let out a slow breath, shaking his head slightly. Sherlock chuckled mockingly. The feeling of sureness creeping into his body, relaxing the muscles into smug certainty. Once again he knew where he stood. His mad, buzzing constantly mind grasping at the familiar ground.

“That explains _so much_! You had to _love_ me! Ridiculing you all the time, taking you down in public… Tell me, if I slapped you, would you actually be easier to work with?”

“Shut up,” he growled in response.

“I believe, I am almost flattered. It is vaguely less dull than I'd expected. I mean-”

“Shut up!” commanded Anderson sharply, tugging on the ropes at the same time.

Bounds cut into Sherlock’s skin, burning his wrists. Making him hiss and fall silent obediently. His eyes dropped closed, thoughts swirling. Quick, skilful use of the ropes. Sharp, ordering voice. After few seconds Anderson lessened the pressure on the bonds, Sherlock’s eyes opened slowly.

“Oh,” he breathed in quiet realisation.

“Yes,” agreed Anderson with an embarrassed cough.

“That explains Sally,” offered Sherlock after another silent moment. “Nobody could mistake her for a Domme.”

Anderson’s smile was evident in his voice, even if it was hiding the obvious embarrassment.

“True. Even I’m not that stupid, right?”

Sherlock’s surprised laughter was much less mocking than his previous humour. He flexed his hands, enjoying the slight burn on his skin.

“You wanted a challenge then- you like to… tame your subs. You’re obviously new to it, to what you want. Fantasies were always there, obviously. Subconscious looking for someone to fit into them, to give you what you need. To let you control them. Snarling and talking back, fighting you, even though both of you knew this shift of powers is what you wanted and needed. You want to take someone’s control from them, slowly, masterfully, step by step, until they’re begging you to take it away. To be yours, taken care of and claimed…” described Sherlock in quiet tones, letting this vision spread between them and enjoying the sound of Anderson’s quickened breathing.

“Your wife was never into it at all, you didn’t even know how to ask for what you needed; you barely understood it yourself. You were attracted to her in the first place, because you fought or were rivals, when you’ve met. In the end though she was more of a partner to you. Sally, on the other hand, wouldn’t mind surrendering to you at all, but you don’t want someone who’d give themselves up to you. You want to take them apart slowly and make them submit, that’s why you wanted me. I’m untamed.”

“Yes, fine, congratulations,” snapped Anderson in anger clearly fueled by embarrassment, his voice clearly lowered with arousal. “Now that we finally established I’d love to tie you up and tease you ‘till even you are finally speechless, could we please move on? Seriously, deduce if you must, but leave sex out of it, would you? Your ego is huge enough.”

Sherlock swallowed loudly, blinking and taking a deep, slow breath. Anderson flexed his hands again, his arms moving against the detective’s. He fought to concentrate.

“You played football at the university.”

The sigh that came from Anderson this time sounded more amused than annoyed, his longish hair touching Sherlock’s as he shook his head in wonder.

“I will really believe you’re a genius if you can guess the position.”

Sureness. Tendency to keep to himself, even as a part of the team. Commanding, but not organized; preferring to watch from the sidelines than to plan it. Individual. At least two fingers broken or strained sometime during young adulthood.

“Goalkeeper.”

Trying to turn again, Anderson cursed when the bounds stopped him. Sherlock smirked in triumph. He let his head fall on Anderson’s arm, closing his eyes tiredly and thinking over all the small things he'd managed to learn about Anderson, re-analyzing them into the new context, making them fit the whole picture and adding to them what he already knew about the man. He could only hope the help would come before he was done.  
Anderson clenched his teeth and managed to bear all the deductions, keeping Sherlock focused, tightening the rope around the detective’s wrists, when he was on the edge of sliding into the madness.

Lestrade was shouting and Sally looked nervous, as though she were likely to find the two of them had dismembered each other. John was calm, as he always was in a crisis. He scanned his eyes steadily over Sherlock’s body, checking for wounds. He met the detective’s steady, calm eyes and nodded at one of the doctors. Sherlock smiled at the result of this silent communication between them. He was incredibly glad that, for once in his life, John seemed to agree and was actually ready to help Sherlock get out of a trip to hospital. Apparently managing to live through hours being bound to Anderson deserved some kind of reward.

Anderson himself was now seated beside Sherlock in the back of an ambulance, orange blanket around his shoulders, and Sally, with slightly shaking hands, standing before him. Anderson was telling her something, his voice quiet and yet hard as steel in that unmistakable way. Sherlock smirked slightly as Sally nodded sharply and walked away, much steadier and calmer than before- probably not even fully realizing what Anderson had just done with his command for coffee, or some other equally trivial request. Anderson met Sherlock’s gaze steadily, as if daring him to say something, but the detective stayed silent.

“Sherlock!” called John, “Come on, you’re free to go.”

He watched for long enough to see Sherlock hopping off his seat, before continuing his conversation with one of the female medics. Sherlock stopped for a moment before turning to face Anderson again, a thoughtful smirk twisting his mouth.

“Anderson!”

The other man’s attention snapped to him quickly, irritatedly.

“With regards to our discussion earlier…”

Sherlock let the sentence fall and grinned at Anderson’s angry frown.

“You’re always welcome to try.”

He turned around with flourish and walked over to John with a bright smile and the pleasing memory of Anderson’s shocked expression in his mind. This could end up so much more interesting than he could have predicted.


End file.
